


guarded hearts

by mortalitasi



Series: the last sanctuary [5]
Category: Neverwinter Nights, Neverwinter Nights (Hordes of the Underdark)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Past Abuse, Romance, Sexual Content, it's......smushy asf. i'm sorry, smut with feelings, spoiler: they bang (finally).
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18939919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: They have only stolen moments here and there; an embrace, a light kiss, an exhausted few hours of sleep huddled under the same blanket to keep her warm, but never anything else. There has been no time, no space. And he is abruptly aware that right now, for the first time in months, they are very much and genuinely alone, with no kobold and no wolf in sight, and not in danger of being disturbed soon.It's enough to send his head spinning.





	guarded hearts

**Author's Note:**

> almost a billion years later our intrepid heroes are finally getting some
> 
> please hold off on popping the champagne until the end
> 
> (also hi i'm not dead)

It is difficult to track the passage of time in Cania.  
  
Mornings do come, eventually, certainly, but nights seem to drag on for centuries, and there is no relief with dawn. It is always cold, bitter, and the icy gales are always blowing. howling over jagged mountains of white that have forgotten how to be stone after millennia of frost. What comfort is there to be found in a sunless day, or a starless night? Living does not concern the inhabitants of Cania—only survival.  
  
Perhaps that is why he's so desperate to feel something, anything, besides the nagging beat of his infernal blood. The chill does not bother him—but nothing else seems to reach him past the haze, either. No joy or hope. No true warmth. He is simply numb.  
  
Or, he was. He _was_ numb, until she reached for him.  
  
The stuffy little room she'd rented for them from the innkeeper had faded from his focus at her touch, and all greater awareness had fled him. Suddenly, the world was just them, sitting side-by-side on the overstuffed bed with its lumpy mattress, and her hands framing his face. She is cool, even in the raging heat of the inn room—she could never shake off her low temperature, no matter the place, and it is soothing, a balm against the fever burning under his skin. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable it all was, hadn't let himself really think about it, and now she is breaking those barriers with nothing but a gentle caress and a gaze.  
  
A shuddering sigh escapes him. He shuts his eyes, leaning into her palm, letting some of the tension drain away from him.  
  
“Tired?” she asks softly, rubbing a thumb over his jaw.  
  
Valen remains still, savoring the affection. “I do not believe the word is adequate for what I feel at present,” he confesses.  
  
“I'm sorry,” she says, her voice hushed.  
  
He has to look at her then—her light brown skin has lost its healthy tint during her sojourns in the Underdark, and now, the Hells. Without the sun to help hide the bluish undertone of her complexion, her half-drow parentage is evident more than ever before; but that is all he can see of her mother in her, for her hair is black as a raven's wing, her eyes the color of uncut amber. She is weary, his lady love, weary of being strong, even with all the wisdom of her years behind her. He marks it in the slump of her slender shoulders, the sad line of her lovely mouth. His heart stirs at the sight, rousing from its confines like a slumbering beast. Whenever he thinks he is about to lose himself, he need only look to her.  
  
“Don't apologize,” he replies. He turns his face, so that he may kiss her palm, and then lifts his hand to twine their fingers together. “I would follow you anywhere.”  
  
She gives him a wan smile. “I believe the Ninth Hell very much puts ‘anywhere’ to shame. This will be hard to outdo.”  
  
“I am no stranger to impossible feats. In fact, I know a woman who accomplishes them on the regular.”  
  
This makes her stare down at the mattress, suddenly bashful.  
  
The shyness of her real, vulnerable self is something he will never tire of seeing. She has been too long without another, making her unsure in ways he recognizes—neither of them are open people, unsuspicious people, and it is life and cruel circumstance that has shaped them to be this way. But they have built this safety together: a private intimacy of truth and kindness, where a loving word has no motive beyond praise or pleasure. Here, they can heal one another, as much as they are able.  
  
“You keep strange company, then,” Palieth says.  
  
He tightens his grip, just slightly. “Strange, and beautiful; and loyal, cunning, and compassionate. I could aspire to no greater thing than her love.”  
  
She sucks in a sharp breath, as though his words were a physical blow. “Valen…”  
  
“It's the truth,” he says. He uses his free hand to tilt her head back by the chin, cautious and careful, always aware of keeping his touch delicate. Especially here, in this place, he fears his own strength more than anything else.  
  
Her eyes are shining with emotion, or tears—or both—when she meets his gaze. It is so quiet that he can hear the barely-perceptible thrum of her heartbeat, pulsing steadily from her, tangled with the rhythm of the fire crackling in the hearth. He can smell the velox berries they'd crushed as kindling, the harsh, clean linens on the bed, and the sharp sweetness of her, so wonderful, and a lance of longing goes through him. They have only stolen moments here and there; an embrace, a light kiss, an exhausted few hours of sleep huddled under the same blanket to keep her warm, but never anything else. There has been no time, no space. And he is abruptly aware that right now, for the first time in months, they are very much and genuinely alone, with no kobold and no wolf in sight, and not in danger of being disturbed soon. It's enough to send his head spinning.  
  
“I can't say I deserve your devotion,” she begins, tearing him from his thoughts. “But you have mine in return. You shall always have it; just as you have my love, and always will. You’re a good man.”  
  
He still feels like he’s about to burst whenever he hears her say that—he doubts that will change any time soon. “My heart has chosen where to rest,” he says, leaning in to press his forehead to hers. “As far as being a good man… if my lady says it, it must be true.”  
  
“It was true before I said it,” she insists. They've discussed it before—she is his staunchest defender, even against his own criticisms. Perhaps especially against them.  
  
“I'll concede this battle, if only for the sake of brevity.”  
  
“Very generous.”  
  
He chuckles. “I've been known to have my moments.”  
  
“Valen?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
She has moved closer, stealing his breath, watching him with an intensity that makes his skin hum with anticipation. Her eyes search his face, appraising him with such plain and unmasked desire that his chest burns.  
  
“May I…?”  
  
“Please,” he says in a low voice.  
  
Her kiss is tender, at first, a simple expression of a simple feeling; but she lingers for a while, almost drunk on the nearness of him, and then she moves her hands to tangle them in his hair, drawing him closer, pressing herself to him. She is only wearing a pair of loose trousers and an overlarge shirt of scratchy wool-like fabric, the best she could find as far as bedclothes go in the Hells. They do absolutely nothing to stop him feeling her—all of her—through his tunic, lithe and lissome and dwarfed by his broad stature. He feels the pleased shiver that racks her from head to toe when he hooks an arm around her waist, when he opens his mouth to hers, when all sweetness is forgotten. He drinks deep of her, like a dying man slakes his thirst at an oasis, growing dizzy with the taste of her. She is here, in his arms, and that is real. _This_ is real. Their mad journey may end in death, but they will at least have had this.  
  
She gasps quietly for breath when they break apart, cheeks reddened, lips plump. Her fingers curl against his tunic. “Don't stop,” she pleads. The rough edge to her words sets his blood aflame.  
  
“My lady?”  
  
“We might not have another chance,” Palieth says. “And I—I don't wish to be alone tonight. If you wish it too…”  
  
She gets her answer.  
  
He seals his mouth over hers, palming at her hips through her trousers to find a handhold as they sway together, coming dangerously close to tipping over. His tail lashes around her calf, searching for purchase—he hungers to be near her in every way possible, body and soul, and the sensation is so acute, so cutting, that it is almost a physical pain. He pictured this differently. Their first knowing of one another always took place somewhere else in his mind: perhaps safely back in the Seer's sanctuary, or on the surface, far from the conflict and the strife. She deserves more, but there may be no more to be had, if this wild attempt to stop Mephistopheles concludes in failure. There is one thing Valen Shadowbreath does know, however—wherever they are, or wherever they may come to be, he will and would love her the same. Being in the Hells changes nothing of that. Being in the Hells does not change how he plans to treasure her.  
  
Impatience is tempting—he can already feel himself straining, ravenous for the rest, but he knows it has been a long time for her; a long time since she has loved another, and even longer since she let a man touch her. He must not give into his desires, no matter how convincing they may be.  
  
Her skin erupts in goosepimples when he goes exploring beneath her floppy shirt, and she's soon peeling herself away from him to rip it off over her head. He forgets to breathe, for a bit, at the sight of her. She's slender and lovely, as he expected, the sweep of her clavicle bird-like and elegant, with a shape streamlined by a lifetime of ranging. He passes a hand over her side, almost in wonderment; she doesn't hide from him, though the uncertain expression on her face says she wants to.  
  
“You are magnificent,” he murmurs, tracing careful fingers over a scar beneath her left breast. It's healed smoothly, pale and drawn and very soft.  
  
She smiles shyly. “You're not so bad yourself,” she says. Her hand clasps over his.  
  
He presses his lips to every blemish he finds: those on her collarbones, the zigzag milky lines on her upper arms, every starburst of scar tissue, every freckle. She lets him, carding her fingers through his hair as he discovers her, sees her for the first time with no barriers between them. He tugs off his own tunic a minute later, displaying his far grislier collection of scars; the marks of the whip, the fang, and the claw, the burns and the beatings. They're all written across his white skin, over his shoulders and back and chest. But she only looks at them, sadly, and smooths her little palms over them, following her touch with kisses, repeating his reverence, accepting him entirely.  
  
“You have so many,” she says, her mouth pulling downward. “So many, and you haven't lived even half my years. So much suffering in such short a time…”  
  
Valen kisses her. This one is not hungry or hurried—just a consolation. He brushes at the soft strands of hair framing her face. “What's happened has happened. It's in the past. They have healed, and so have I.”  
  
She shuts her eyes, looking overwhelmed. “You are very brave, Valen. I am blessed to have known you.”  
  
He gathers her up in his arms. “Don't speak that way,” he says, looking at her. “This night will not be our last.”  
  
“I don’t want it to be. I truly don’t…”  
  
“Then it won’t be,” he says simply, and leans in again.  
  
It’s intoxicating, having her pressed against his chest, skin-to-skin, feeling her shift over him, sliding. She pulls the tie from his hair, cups his jaw in her hands, kisses him again, and again, blooming beneath his attentions like some unknown and beautiful flower—if it is possible to expire from an excess of joy, he’s almost certain he will find out soon. He lets her explore for a while longer before it becomes impossible to restrain himself; he bands his arms around her, bringing her even closer, so that her thighs circle his waist. They are aligned in the best of ways. He presses into her, and she moans into his mouth, an airy sound that sets his pulse racing.  
  
“Oh, gods,” she whispers. “You feel—good.”  
  
“Good,” he repeats to her, an affirmation and praise together.  
  
She occupies herself with driving him mad with her lips once more—he can’t believe he ever thought her cold, or distant, or any variation of those things.  
  
He’d been an absurd man, with absurd opinions, and every single one of them about her was wrong: she burns steady and low, like the embers of a dragon heart. There is no ostentatious flash or flame, but the heat and fervor is there, and you will only discover it if you are brave enough to touch. Various alternate metaphors, useless, disjointed, float through his head. Only one other makes a sufficient impression: still waters run deep, truly, and he would be absolutely content to drown in her.  
  
Soon they’re fumbling at each other’s trousers, separating so they can discard their own respective pieces of clothing. The pile of abandoned garments by the bed grows larger, and then she’s completely bare to him, as he is to her.  
  
Valen loves her; he loves her with his spirit, and his hands, and his worshipful tongue. He crushes his impatience under the surge of his desire to see her comfortable, to see her react to his each and every caress.  
  
She falls on her back amid the linens, sighing his name—and then gasping it when he parts her with two fingers. He makes his way down the length of her, appreciating every dip and muscle, until he is where he wants to be most. He takes his time preparing her, letting his mouth compensate: it is soft and pliant and precise and everything his rough hands are not, used as they are to combat and unforgiving work. The mouth can speak and hum and kiss and suckle—it is wonderfully versatile, and he has never been more grateful for it, despite not being a man of many words.  
  
He almost forgets about himself until she gently tugs at his horns, telling him without speech to return to her. He braces his arms on either side of her head, careful not to overwhelm her with his weight.  
  
They slide into another kiss; if she is bothered by the wet glisten of his lips, of her taste on him, she doesn’t show it at all.  
  
“Need you,” she murmurs to him quietly, afterward.  
  
He nods.  
  
They look at one another for a moment, surrounded by the scarlet curtain of Valen’s unbound hair; her chest is rising and falling rapidly, as though she’s run a great distance, and the color in her cheeks is high. She looks so preciously alive—he wants to remember this forever, this feeling, that they are on the precipice of a connection so profound and beyond the corporeal that he is scared to break the silence. Ghostly-light, his spaded tail brushes at her left thigh. He takes some steadying breaths, and swipes a thumb over the fluttering pulse in her neck.  
  
He had been a fool to ever think she wouldn’t be important to him.  
  
When he finally pushes in, she gives another one of those small gasps, and her hands clutch at his back. He nearly comes undone then, surrounded by the exquisite warmth of her, but he stays still, giving himself time to adjust.  
  
“Alright?” he asks her under his breath.  
  
Her eyes, wide and luminous, are looking right back at him. It’s her turn to nod. She draws him down into a desperate kiss, and moves her hips against him. Heat tears through him, blistering a path down to the very end of his spine.  
  
“ _Ah_ …!”  
  
He’s never heard himself sound like that, and it is embarrassing and liberating at the same time—an odd mixture.  
  
“Valen,” she sighs. “More.”  
  
Who is he to deny her?  
  
It’s tentative, at first, the movements of two people who may have forgotten the reality of the act after years of solitude. But like revisiting the steps to a dance learned once, long ago, it only takes some persistence and revision before everything falls into place. Soon there is a push and pull building between them; he gives himself to her, she takes him in, welcoming, wanting, and repaying in kind. And then over again.  
  
Her hands brush at his face, his neck, the strong silhouette of his shoulders, at his scarred sides, the tapered line of his waist. There is so much of him to see and touch, and not a single stretch of it unloved: he needs to know that, because he doesn’t have a high opinion of himself, and she _needs_ to convey to him this one truth—that he is all she’s ever wanted, that he is more than worthy, that he is deserving, and that he feels full and right inside of her.  
  
“I love you,” she tells him when he surges forward again, leaving her nerveless with pleasure. She says it again afterward, in her mother tongue, words she has not spoken in centuries.  
  
He echoes it back to her, saying it against her temple, into the crook of her neck. “Only you,” he murmurs.  
  
Her breath stutters. “Only—you.”  
  
Palieth learns then that Valen Shadowbreath is as thorough in his lovemaking as he is in battle. He locks their fingers together, pinning her roving hands to the mattress, dampening her every cry of wordless urgency with his lips and his relentless rhythm.  
  
She has a hard time focusing—but she can still decide that she adores his expression: the furrow between his brows, the twinge of corded muscle in his jaw, the concentrated intensity of his gaze, his flushed mouth, bitten pink. His eyes are beautiful—they were the first thing she noticed about him, back when they were just strangers at best, murderous rivals at worst. They’re an odd color, even for a tiefling—a striking cyan. Not blue, not teal, but something in between. Electric. The lashes fringing those eyes are as red as his hair, long and thick. He looks like art come to life; perhaps it’s shallow of her to linger on it as much as she does, but she wouldn’t have dreamed someone like him choosing someone like her. Not ever.  
  
He stills suddenly, his grip tightening.  
  
“I’m—” he gasps, leaning back. She doesn’t let him go far, because she knows what has startled him. “I don’t want—I might—”  
  
“You won’t hurt me,” she says breathlessly, drawing him further into the cradle of her hips. He shudders, his tail curling around one of her ankles. “Don’t be afraid.”  
  
“But—ah—”  
  
“Valen, listen to me.” She brushes a kiss over his cheek, over his mouth, lingering there. “ _Let go_.”  
  
He groans her name, guttural and very wanton, and it makes her almost forget her frustration at being interrupted.  
  
“Yes,” he says, voice husky. “Alright.”  
  
He doesn’t hold back after that.  
  
She sees a flash of fangs when he bites at his own lip in an attempt to keep quiet. They find their pace again, faster than before; now he doesn’t stop himself, not from holding her down, or from grazing his teeth against her skin, from thumbing at her hip, or further below, making her buck into him. He moans flattery in Infernal into her ear, compliments he would never vocalize in Common, telling her she is delightful and tight and _good_ , that he’s dreamt of this longer than he would like to admit.  
  
He is grateful it is not one of the many languages she can understand.  
  
Valen leads her to the edge and over it. She trembles against him in her climax, constricting and releasing, every shock of her ecstasy driving him higher and higher.  
  
But what spells the end for him is when she turns her head, mouthing at the pointed tip of his ear, and whispers, “ _Again_.”  
  
He has never known a loss of self so sweet.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they are as clean as they can be, lying bare and tangled in the rumpled sheets, she kisses him, drawing it out for as long as she is able.  
  
“We will survive,” she says after she’s pulled away and settled herself on his chest, her fingers playing along his collarbone. “If only to do this on another occasion.”  
  
He flushes, some sort of bashful, though he just spent the last hour of his life making her cry out his name—among other things. He takes one of her hands, pressing a light kiss to her fingers.  
  
“It is, I admit, more than sufficient motivation,” he says, brushing the hair out of her face.  
  
She smiles at him, and tucks her head under his chin, angling her ear over the place where his heart lies.  
  
“I want to hear this sound forever,” she murmurs, and he feels heat flood his eyes.  
  
“Thank you,” Valen says softly. It is thanks for so much more than that. It will always be more, with her.  
  
And he is content for it to be so.


End file.
